


Drive

by babyrubysoho



Series: Cherish [3]
Category: Nightmare (Band)
Genre: Car Sex, Don't Stick Your Dick In Crazy, Ear Pain, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Eventual Happy Ending, Evil Sakito, Feisty Uke, Light Bondage, M/M, Masochist Sakito, Mild Blood, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Power Dynamics, Ruka can't resist, Threats of Violence, Violent Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-15
Updated: 2016-05-15
Packaged: 2018-06-08 13:45:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6857428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/babyrubysoho/pseuds/babyrubysoho
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been two years since Ruka managed to tear himself away from Sakito's uber sex appeal and mindgames, and as far as he knows his guitarist has never looked back. But now, a stormy summer afternoon and some inexpert car repair attempts are forcing him to rethink. And suffice to say he is not happy about it.</p><p>WARNING: Contains mild sexualized violence (consensual). If this bothers you, please skip this fic.</p><p>Illustrated with Sakito plus car; and, because he's naturally going to look more like a pinup than a mechanic, it's calendar theme :)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Drive

 

 

“I'm thinking of getting the 'Vette dyno-tuned,” Sakito announces happily over lunch one day. Not being about guitars, women or fishing, Ni~ya-chan ignores this astonishing statement in favour of bullying Yomi across the table, but Hitsu-kun and I turn to goggle at him.  
    
“What does that mean?” asks Hitsu-kun eventually, having zero knowledge of any vehicle that's not a Kawasaki he can drive at 150kph in the pouring rain and then fall off of.  
    
“Yeah,” I say, straightening up from my habitual slouch and giving Sakito an interrogative raise of my eyebrows, “exactly what _does_ that mean?” Sakito launches into a pedantic explanation full of words like “PCM” and “load cell,” and I narrow my eyes at him. This whole car thing? It's new. And I don't like it.  
    
Sakito has had his license for a while now, actually, and a more finicky, prissy-ass driver I have never seen. Tutored by his one minor accident and Hitsu-kun's many carefree spills from his bike (and the broken bones caused thereby), you couldn't get him up to the speed limit if his house was on fire. But it seems to keep him amused and he indulges in aimless road trips through the countryside by himself, listening to X Japan and presumably ignoring innumerable lovelorn messages from whatever poor sap he currently has tangled in his coils.  
    
He's never been interested in the car _as_ a car, mind; it's an accessory, another toy to play with that somebody else will fix if it gets broken. I kind of feel for it, actually. Speaking as someone with a (possibly) unhealthy relationship with my own vehicle, it baffles me that he can't even change a tyre. Or, at least, he _couldn't_. Over the last month or so, though, he's started to alarm me by trying to engage me in auto-talk. Now, after the disastrous psychosexual war two years ago that Sakito and I barely emerged from alive, I'm hyper-sensitive to anything that could be construed as an attempt to sneak back into my territory; and every time he mentions carburettors or tuning or horsepower, careful and deliberate as if he's speaking a foreign language, I feel the hackles stand up on my neck.  
    
I try to reassure myself that his new hobby has nothing to do with me but is in some way connected with his recent haircut and is just a kind of misguided bid to act more blokeish. Which, I reflect smugly, is never gonna happen. Take the new 'do: I was sort of horrified at first, remembering, despite myself, how his waterfall of curls used to cascade through my fingers, how they felt like silk against my skin. But it didn't take me long to see that, instead of looking boyish, the cropped hair just emphasises his delicacy, highlighting those fine little bones like a picture frame. Not that I spend my time thinking about that kind of thing. Of course not! Now where was I...?  
    
Oh yeah. Cars. Cars are _my_ thing. It won't surprise anyone, probably, to learn that I'm as geeky in my auto life as my Akiba life; and I love my big black monster of a machine. It is to me what Hitsu-kun's two tiny canine hairballs are to him. I chose it for many technical minutiae that I won't bore the arse off you with right now, and I love playing with it and cleaning it and getting out of it the very best it has to give. But Sakito? Sakito's car is a fashion statement, pure and simple; and that's just as it should be, because it's safer for both of us that I keep my sphere of enjoyment as far away from his as possible.  
  

  
So when I get a mail from him one Sunday afternoon as I'm vegetating on the sofa I instantly go into paranoid mode.  
  
  
_Hey, Ruka. You're not busy, right? I need your help with the car. Come round?_  
  
  
Warily I open up the attachment he's sent. It's the entire Corvette manual in PDF form. The cheek of it! Now what has he done to that car? On the other hand, maybe he's done nothing. This feels like one of his tricks, and I should know, I've been on the receiving end enough times in the past. Then again...I am a sad mistrustful bastard when it comes to Sakito, and I always will be. But it's no wonder.  
  
  
_I am busy, actually_ , I text back. A few seconds – those clever fingers type fast – and his reply comes in.  
  
  
_You're not. You're on your couch eating chips watching Attack on Titan._  
  
  
...Damn the man! I am an open bloody book to him, still. I diplomatically decide to ignore him, and return to watching Levi kick giant butt on my flatscreen. But we all know how persistent he is. A few minutes later:  
  
  
_Don't be a dick, Ruka. Please?_  
  
  
And, strangely, I'm immediately reassured, because for the whole sorry time I was Sakito's dog he never said _please_ to me once. Not even at the end; not even to keep me. Perhaps he really has tried to do something technical to the car. Christ.  
  
  
_All right_ , I send grudgingly, and heave myself out of my pit. _Don't touch anything!_  
  
  
Half an hour later I'm counting the garages beneath his apartment building, feeling mildly resentful at having my weekend interrupted but always willing to say hello to a pretty car, which the Corvette is. Ah. Here we are.  
    
I shove the half-open garage door all the way up so I don't have to bend, and immediately flush to the roots of my hair, my comfort zone dwindling away to nothing: Sakito is perched on the front of the car by its open bonnet, leaning gracefully over the engine and holding a spanner like he's never seen one before. He's wearing a pair of old Senka overalls, the sleeves tied haphazardly around his slim hips, with a worn grey Game of Thrones tshirt tucked into them, and flip-flops. Not the stuff of which the Playboy calendar is made, you may think. But the car is a _beauty_ , as pale and sleek and streamlined as its owner; the garage is hot and airless, and a faint sheen of sweat shines on Sakito's willowy limbs, that unholy pretty face of his smudged with engine oil where he's wiped it with the back of his hand. He looks across at me.  
    
And there I am, instantly hit with a vision of epic stereotypical proportions, of a sponge-wielding Sakito draped across the bonnet wearing nothing but soap-suds and a come-hither look. Fuck, I am a walking cliché.  
    
This little fantasy lasts about two seconds, then is happily crowbarred from my brain as I notice the actual state of the engine.  
    
“ _What the fucking fuck have you done to that car?!_ ” I screech, appalled, and dash forward. Sakito lets out a slight wince at the sheer volume, then gives me those huge innocent eyes that I will never fall for again.  
    
“I was just cleaning the engine,” he tells me serenely, brandishing an oily rag as proof, “and neatening some stuff up.” I gape at him, then back at the tangle of hoses and worrying fuses before me. This has to be some sort of crime! I shall call the police and Sakito will be condemned to drive nothing more exciting than a lawnmower for the rest of his life.  
    
“And what, it just fell apart?!”  
    
“'S not my fault,” says Sakito, leaning back as I loom over him and his poor disembowelled Corvette. “I was following the YouTube tutorial.” I throw up my arms in righteous indignation. “Well I asked you to teach me a month ago,” he continues, “and you just wandered off the topic!” Damn my avoidance techniques. “It's this bit that's the problem.” He gestures to the gearbox with his spanner.  
    
“Put that down!!” I bark, terrified that one more move from Saki, who clearly has the Touch of Death when it comes to automobiles, will cause the whole thing to disintegrate. He gives me a stubborn look, the Leader face, but this is no time to obey the band pecking order: instead I reach out reflexively and push him away from the engine before he can do any more damage. Unfortunately, Sakito is so very light these days that he slides right off the car, just catching himself as he hits the floor.  
    
“Sorry,” I say absently, my head already half buried under the bonnet. I'm expecting the irritating click of the tongue he uses to signal that one of us is about to get an ear-bashing; but nothing. Reaching down gingerly to disentangle the timing belt, I cock one eye curiously in his direction.  
    
_Fuck_. He doesn't look pissed off. He doesn't even look disapproving. He looks...interested. And not in the car. In _me_. I haven't seen that expression in two years, and I thank my lucky stars every day for it; his gaze is focused on me intently, delicate lips pursed in a considering line as he looks me up and down. I glance away pronto, a catch of vague nausea blooming under my ribs at the memories the sight of him brings up.  
    
“Go sit in the car,” I order him in my grouchiest tones, hiding myself as deep in the engine as I can get short of actually climbing in with it. “I can't sort out this fucking disaster with you hovering.” No sound, but that doesn't mean much; Sakito moves like a cat. A minute settling of the car suggests he's got in the driver's seat. Okay. No problem. I lean out to grab the correct spanner from a nearby toolbox, and notice the hair on my arms is standing on end. Even my body recognises the danger.  
    
“...I'm not learning much like this,” Sakito observes from his seat, mercifully hidden from view by the raised bonnet.  
    
“Tough,” I mutter, wiping my face on my sleeve; I'm nervous all right, and the stifling heat isn't helping. Calling up the Corvette's manual on my phone, I focus on the mess in front of me. At least I can't make it much worse, fancy-ass foreign car or not.  
    
“All right,” I call, after what seems like an eternity of frustrated swearing. “Try and start her up.” Sakito, who has turned unnervingly silent after his one mild complaint, does so: I hear the click of the ignition key, then the dubious sound of the engine trying to turn over. Then nothing. “Crap. Hang on.” I fiddle about a bit. “Again.” An apologetic cough from the ailing car, and it dies again. Still no sarcastic comments from its owner, which is more worrying. I glare at the Corvette, contemplate giving it a kicking in case that does the trick, then re-consult the manual and do some minor rearranging.  
    
This time, to my infinite satisfaction, I hear the big-cat roar of a six-cylinder and then the deep purr as it settles to an idle, music to the ears of a petrol-head like myself, the rich sound reverberating around the garage. I dimly hear Sakito make a fond, approving noise that I'd like to think is for me, although I know far better by now.  
    
“How's that then?!” I say triumphantly, leaning round the open door in the vain hope of some praise. His answer gets lost in the rumble of the engine, and I cautiously bend closer to hear him. “What was that?” I demand, wiping my hands on my jeans. Sakito abruptly cuts the engine, and in the distance I hear summer thunder. Then silence. He looks up at me and there it is _again_ , that deliberate mixture of interest and disdain that used to kick-start me into anger so easily and now scares the living shit out of me. I reverse so fast that the low door-frame connects with the back of my head in an almighty crash, hard enough that I see the proverbial stars.  
    
“Are you okay, Ruka?” comes Sakito's voice, soft and concerned and concealing so much amusement at my expense that I get another rush of dizziness, this time from the pure urge to hurt him. It's been so long since he used that tone...I didn't know I could still feel like this. I should never have pushed him, never reminded him of how good he had it with me! Now, what do I do about it?  
    
Once I can open my eyes and focus again, to my consternation I see Sakito gazing up at me, fine brows furrowed in fake sympathy and the dark eyes beneath them observing me carefully. He's so close to me now, and his proximity and the damn memories set my pulse hammering, gearing up for another panic response.  
    
“Sure you're not concussed?” queries Sakito, gauging my reactions to a tee. He raises a hand quietly, catching my flinch and tipping the corner of his perfect mouth up in a brief, nervous smile before his exploratory fingers gently meet the bump on the back of my head.  
    
Thunder rumbles again, the garage now almost intolerably hot, even with the raised door. This has been a summer of storms, flash floods and otherwise weird phenomena. In hindsight, I should have paid such fucking portentous weather the attention properly due it, and recognised it as the dire warning from heaven it clearly is: do not do this, Ruka, do _not_ let him start this again!  
    
He gives a thoughtful little hum, and my gaze turns back to him despite myself. A bead of sweat slips along his neck to glisten in the hollow between his collarbones; my eyes follow it, mesmerised. Sakito takes a breath, and then before I can blink my lips are on his throat, one hand fisted inexplicably in the damp fabric of his tshirt to yank him up against me, so slight I've already pulled him half out of the seat. I taste him and my whole body thrills to it, addictive and hateful and overlaid with the disarmingly male scents of sweat and motor oil.  
    
“Put me down,” gasps Sakito against my ear, and his fingers slide beneath my collar, dragging me close. And that's when I come back to myself, because this has happened before, precisely this, the first time he laid hands on me, and the way I reacted to it almost ruined my life. The mere thought of going through all that again is enough to make me shudder and shove him away without even considering what I'm doing.  
    
Sakito raises himself to a crouch in the low leather seat, every muscle tense with something, anxiety or anticipation, I can't tell which.  
    
“Ruka,” he says, breathless, pupils dilating in the dim light. “I didn't start it this time. Just remember that.”  
    
“There's nothing to start!” I growl furiously, the anger masking my panic. I hear Sakito inhale excitedly, apprehensive; then he breathes out, and I know he's made up his mind.  
    
“I don't know,” he murmurs contemplatively, and lifts his chin to look down his nose at me, a faint sneer tugging his shapely lip up. The pose bares his throat, a purposely conflicting mess of signals. “You came to _heel_ fast enough when I called -”  
    
That's it, he's landed on one of my trigger words and he knows it, so I haul off and hit him, the most satisfying feeling I've had in years, a sharp whine escaping him as his head slams into the seat-back. Sakito blinks dazedly for a moment, then shoots me a vulpine glance and licks blood fastidiously off his bottom lip. I waste about two seconds being contrite, just like I used to, and oh, hell, everything's starting to repeat itself and I'm not going to be able to stop! I kneel above him helplessly, that tiny frame of his languorous and yielding while his expression promises me an imminent world of pain.  
    
“You fucking idiot,” I say in despair, and pull him towards me. Sakito's hands rise to cradle my head encouragingly, and then he's kissing me and I'm lost as I ever was, sinking down through a wave of sensation as his lips brush mine, blood-bitter, wordlessly telling me the most compelling lies with the delicate sweep of his tongue against my own. He presses himself into me, another layer of heat all along my body, and without warning his kiss turns savage, biting, until I have to go on the attack just to stop myself being cut to ribbons.  
    
“I...dream about this,” he confesses in a pained gasp as my teeth close in his earlobe. His fingers twist into my hair and pull. “Sometimes...All the time...Since we stopped...” That is not what I want to hear. I wrap my hand around his slender throat to shut him up, half a caress and half in earnest. His nails come up and dig into my flesh until I snarl and have to let go. “Don't you?” he continues recklessly. “Dream, I mean...”  
    
“Nightmares,” I growl, and it's no lie. That's what this is like right now, the sickening feeling of a recurring dream you always think you're done with until it happens again.  
    
“But you think of me,” he whispers, triumphant, and I kiss him just to stop him talking like this; he jerks his head back, viper-quick, before I can take a bite out of that devil's tongue and silence it. “Well?” he insists, pale fingers grasping my chin. There's a bruise spreading fast across his cheekbone, and more around his throat, but he looks so absolutely imperious, so dangerous, that my self-preservation instincts open my mouth before I can think better of it.  
    
“...I think of you, Saki.” His eyes flash happily, hand tightening possessively on my jaw. Dammit. To preserve the last fragment of my self-respect I add, “But it's a fantasy. You understand me?” A shrug, his thumb pressing the stud in my lower lip into my flesh until I cringe. “ _This_ ,” I continue, giving him his own sneer back, “isn't what I dream about. You are _nothing_ to the Sakito I dream of.” I tense up, ready for pain. Sakito pauses, gives me a searching look, and in the space of a second switches persona, a subtle shift that transforms his lovely features from demonic to divine. Crap. _Be afraid_ , prompts my memory: this is his most dangerous mode.  
    
“You're a mess,” he murmurs, voice now soft and intimate, thumb brushing across my cheekbone, slick with the oil he's transferred to my skin with his kisses. And there it is, the fond, earnest look that I used to abase myself just for a chance of seeing, and a pang of pure regret hits me, because if he could be this way all the time then _how_ I would fucking love him. But he can't. Because this isn't him.  
    
“Quit the act,” I mutter before his gentleness gets the better of me. His fingers trace the shape of my ear and tremors of pleasure rill through me; for a moment I lean my head into his hand, then pull myself together. “Seriously,” I tell him, “even you're not stupid enough to think I'd fall for _that_ again.”  
    
“Hmph.” Sakito gives another mini-shrug and releases his grip on me to drop one hand down past his hip. The seat shoots back like a fairground ride, throwing me off balance and depositing me neatly in the footwell between his knees. Sakito leans forward and slams the car door closed, trapping me, taking a firm hold on the scruff of my neck to draw me peremptorily towards him. I look up, disoriented and dismayed at the nostalgic feeling of being beneath him. His face is flushed, just a little, as he picks at the knotted sleeves holding his red overalls up; then a lithe twist of his hips and his thighs are curled around me, his hand shoving me down. Ah. _Now_ we're back on track.  
    
I experience another pang of trepidation as I press my cheek to the smooth skin of his stomach, breathing him in, the scent of him rife with a hundred magical and dreadful associations.  
    
“ _Saki_...” I'm kissing him now, pushing fabric aside, and just how fucking dumb am I? I feel him shivering impatiently beneath my hands.  
    
“Ruka,” he mutters when I pause, and his fingers yank painfully at my hair, “don't just sit there!” Abruptly his touch turns sweet. “...There's no-one as good as you, Ruka, come _on_...” He's trying it _again_. I look up at him to catch a glimpse of that open, wide-eyed expression that's the closest Sakito can get to pleading with his pets. I don't see it; instead I get a curl of his pretty lip, satisfaction at my predictability; then his hand connects sharply with my cheek, knocking my head sideways and igniting the old flame of fury and arousal in me. I snarl at him, echoes of humiliation I thought I was done with forever, and grab his slim hips, fingers biting into his flesh hard enough to grind against the bone.  
    
“ _Yes_ ,” hisses Sakito, head thudding back against the seat as I tear away his clothing and lean down to leave bite marks in the silky skin below his navel. My bruised cheek burns angrily, spurring me on; I bury my head between his legs, and he's so hard beneath my lips. I take him into my mouth and he lets out a noise I've never heard before, sounding for one second almost grateful before his familiar purr of pleasure fills the interior of the car. Fuck, there's _nothing_ as arousing as that sound, and it doesn't make me proud to say it but I always loved doing this to him, the taste of him, the feeling of his soft thigh against my neck and his cruel fingers urging me on.  
    
I scrape my nails down his flat stomach and manage to shuck him of his overalls and underwear in the confined space without him kicking me, then return to blowing him, relishing the luxurious little whines escaping him as my tongue works along his cock. I've never been this good for anyone else, never had to be; but even in this most resentful of moods, the thought of doing anything less than my utmost never occurs to me.  
    
Still, that doesn't mean I'm going to give him everything he wants, especially now the son of a bitch has got me this excited just from trying to please him. So I pause and raise my head, rubbing my thumb teasingly over the head of his cock to see him squirm. Sakito scowls down at me, breathing hard.  
    
“Ruka,” he says warningly, and there was a time when hearing my name in that tone would have brought me to heel in an instant. But I know all his games now, and I'm damned if I'll sink that low again.  
    
Deciding to take a leaf out of his book I reach round blind to fiddle with the seat controls until the back-rest collapses almost to horizontal and I can scramble up to kneel over him. Sakito blinks up at me from his perpendicular position; before he has a chance to get his bearings I grab his tiny waist and throw him easily onto his stomach, wrestling his tshirt up and over his head. This is more of a struggle, what with him wriggling so angrily underneath me. He looks absolutely fucking magnificent like this, hair dishevelled and one lovely eye glaring up at me from where I have him pinned to the seat by the back of his neck. I replace my hand with my teeth and he curses at me as I trace my fingers down the smooth line of his spine, pinching wherever I remember he has a sensitive spot and leaving faint trails of engine oil in my wake. Seeing Sakito dirty is rare, and takes him right down from his usual cold brilliance to something exotic and quite shamelessly animal.  
    
I push two fingers into him without waiting, and it's just like the first time again, hearing him spit out expletives at me to mask his whimper. I see him bite his lip; how long has it been since someone treated him as badly as he deserves?  
    
“Sakito,” I growl into his ear, still reliving the nightmarish sensations of our first encounter, “last chance to say _no_.” He rasps in a breath as I add a third finger, and clutches at the leather of the seat. “You understand me?” It's mostly for form, this warning: Sakito has never, ever backed down from me, and I doubt he's going to start now. Which is just as well, because I'm gonna lose my mind if I don't get inside him soon.  
    
“Here, turn over.” Sakito, being the contrary fuck that he is, retains his stubborn grip on the seat and turns his face away. He knows I want to watch him, follow every change of expression on the off-chance that he loses control. “You really want this to hurt, don't you.” Well that's just dandy. I pry his hand off the seat – this takes a while, guitarists' fingers are strong – and wrench his arm up behind his back; I feel the joint give a warning creak, and he muffles a cry into the leather and holds on. But it's either turn or have his shoulder dislocated, and to my infinite smugness I soon get him on his back, face a register of pain and anger and arousal before he draws a mask across his features.  
    
I wriggle my way between his slim legs, ripping open my jeans with one hand, the skin of his thighs ungodly smooth and hot against my hips. Sakito takes a huge breath and shoots me a challenging look, and before he can exhale I'm inside him, not slow or careful, he's never wanted that.  
    
“Christ...!” That's all I can manage, and just as well, because feeling _this_ again is so incredible that my whole body is instructing my mouth to shower praise on him. But it doesn't matter: Sakito always knows what I'm thinking, and his hands drag me on, sliding down my back to force me deeper, closer to losing it altogether. Naturally I oblige, one hand braced and slipping on the steamed-up window for more leverage.  
    
Sakito moans helplessly against my neck, a soft stream of words that I don't catch escaping him before his teeth sink into his bottom lip and censor them. I push into him recklessly and catch his bitten-off cry, and the sound of his distress is the most potent encouragement I could wish for.  
    
“ _More_ ,” orders Sakito, who delights in pain as much as I do and is even less picky about whose it is. His nails rip down my shoulder. “C'mon, you lazy...damn...bastard!”  
    
“Keep your fucking hands to yourself...and I will,” I growl, ending with a yelp as he lands a fist heavily against my vertebrae. All right, enough.  
    
Pulling away from him I fumble my belt out of the loops of my jeans and reach out to capture his arms. Sakito immediately sees where I'm going with this and fights back, no coy play resistance here: he counters my size and strength with sheer viciousness, attacking me with practised fists and teeth; but he's given me too many opportunities to learn his moves in the past, and with a grunt of triumph I finally get a firm hold on him and lash his wrists to the head-rest. I tighten the belt until I hear a curse, and it's depressing how much harder it makes me, seeing him twist beneath me, lithe and outraged as a captive snake. Well, we can do something about that too.  
    
“Buckle up,” I tell him primly, then drag the seat-belt out and strap him in. I'd like to see him get out of _that_. He doesn't like it, oh, not at all. I smirk. Sakito likes being caught, true, but only because he likes the violent process of escape and retribution even more. I don't think I managed to get him pinned down like this in all the time I was his plaything; I wouldn't have had the nerve, for starters. He's gazing up at me, eyes wide and wary, motionless at last, the breath stopped short in his throat. I think he's _afraid_.  
    
And he should be.  
    
“ _Saki_.” I set my fingers to his neck, feel the wild race of his pulse. Gradually I slide them down, shudders rising in their wake, until the diamond in his navel is sparkling between my finger and thumb. I give the jewel a thoughtful tug, and I can see him grit his teeth; what does he think I'm gonna do? I pull a little harder and he swallows. Ah. “You'd do it, wouldn't you?” I say softly, bending to speak against his lips. “If it was me?” For once he doesn't try to bite me.  
    
“You _know_ I would,” he whispers, a fascinating mix of contempt and anxiety and something else that sets his voice to trembling. I let go of his piercing to move my hand lower; he's harder than ever, I might have known. He moans as I touch him and I swallow the sound. He kisses me back hungrily, almost distracting me from the fact that I am now in control. Almost.  
    
“Say you want this,” I order as soon as I can speak, gliding my nails tauntingly along his hard-on to feel him squirm against his bonds.  
    
“Want...what?” That defiant tone would work so much better if he wasn't flushing with arousal all over his pale skin. I stop moving my hand and he squeezes his perfect eyes shut, suppressing a sound of dismay.  
    
“ _Everything_.”  
    
Sakito sets his jaw.  
    
“ _Everything_ ,” he agrees at last, and opens his eyes, two serene slivers of glass with all the darkness he ever took from me swimming in their depths.  
    
“Good.” Before he can take it back (not that I really think he would) I hit him, directly on the spot where my hand raised a bruise before, then grab a fistful of his rich hair and pull, slow at first then harder and harder until his eyes are watering and his slender arms are straining beneath the makeshift rope with the urge to attack me.  
    
“ _Hurts, hurts, hurts...!_ ” he manages with rapidly increasing urgency, and as the tears spill over his lashes I push his knees apart and bury myself back inside him, barely keeping my grip on him in the onslaught of pure pleasure his body can generate. I think at this point I lose control a bit, because it's been so long and feels so good and I barely know what I'm doing to him any more. Good job the Corvette is equipped with efficient shocks. Sakito stifles a sob that might be from pain but is more likely frustration at not being able to put me in my place.  
    
Once I get a hold of myself I hit the brakes (figuratively speaking, I mean) to get a better look at him and to bring him back from the edge – he would always push me to go faster, and I don't feel like giving him what he wants right now. He makes a low noise of mingled relief and fury, and his eyes flutter closed. I continue this pace, careful not to give him too much stimulation because this isn't about pleasing _him_ (though I have to remind myself of it every few seconds). Then, when he's trembling with irritation at my slowness and his own immobility I set my nails to his chest and rake them down his torso, leisurely but as deep as I can go; they're long as ever, and claw-marks blossom in four crimson stripes on his damp skin.  
    
“ _Ahh!_ ” Sakito's eyes fly open again but he can't do anything about it. His hands close impotently into fists above his head, and I shudder to think what he'd do to me if he was free right now. Without pausing I bend my head to his narrow chest and bite him, my teeth fastening on one of his dusky pink nipples far too roughly for play, drawing a genuine squeal of panic out of him before he clamps his lips shut. At the same time I tear my nails across his side and he twists involuntarily towards my mouth. The press of his hard-on against my stomach tells me his fear is at least matched by his excitement, and I'm gonna have to time this very carefully because I'm close now, watching his hurt and his helplessness and oh, god, I am a terrible person but I just don't care.  
    
I lay off tormenting him before it's too late, and he gives me a wildly distrustful look. Ah, finally I've got him guessing.  
    
“Let...me _go_ ,” he tries, and two years ago I'd have jumped to do it.  
    
“Dream on,” I reply through gritted teeth, grabbing his thighs for more leverage; I can't think straight because the sight of him like this and the heat of him are maddening. So I speed up again, no finesse or intent to please, and lean forward to kiss him, something which has always been a rare privilege for me but which he clearly hates now that he can't dictate his own terms.  
    
Sakito moans into my mouth as I come, anger and pleasure and envy that I'm getting my kicks and he isn't.  
    
“ _Fuck_...!” It's blinding, this sensation, more than ever because it's been so long; I dig my fingertips into his flawless cheek for good measure, I have to get rid of the excess of feeling somewhere and it only seems appropriate that it be recorded on his flesh.  
    
“... _Ruka_ ,” Sakito says hoarsely as my debilitating state of bliss starts to abate. “That's _enough_.” He presses against me as far as he's able in his bound state, breath uneven in my ear and sounding satisfyingly desperate. “... _Make me come_ , you evil son of a bitch...!”  
    
“Why don't you...ask me?” I suggest, chest heaving. That's better, I can think straight again. I sit back between his legs, leaving a hand heavy on his ribcage. “Try asking _nicely_ , Sakito.”  
    
“Fuck you,” he spits, then gasps pitifully as I give his cock one teasing stroke.  
    
“Pretty sure you just did,” I counter, still panting but feeling superior at last. “But you're gonna have to do more. You're going to have to say the magic word.” And what are the odds of that happening?  
    
“I don't grovel to my _pets_ ,” he snarls, right on cue, with that haughty little face I know so well. I close my hand around his erection and he whimpers.  
    
“Good job I told you where to go two years ago, then.”  
    
“You're _never_ going to hear it from me. Not like this.” I take my hands off him at that, and his lovely eyes squeeze shut in distress.  
    
“I should just leave you like this,” I tell him, and certainly the idea has its appeal because Sakito is a complete stranger to humiliation, and being found tied up in his car by the building manager would be the most delightfully awful experience I could wish on him.  
    
“No!” he exclaims instantly, and I know he was thinking it too. He looks away. “...I'm asking, Ruka,” he mutters eventually. “Get me off and let me go.”  
    
“Well,” I acknowledge grudgingly, “that's a start.”  
    
I begin to touch him, too lazy and fleeting to do him any good, punctuated by just enough discomfort to tantalize him – a twist of his reddened nipple here, a bite at his collarbone there.  
    
“ _More_...” he breathes, leaning into every touch, and this time he welcomes my kiss, his skilful tongue begging me eloquently. But that's not what I asked him for.  
    
“More what?” I slap him encouragingly. He opens his mouth, then hisses in annoyance and shuts it again. He just can't say it, can he. Maybe not to anyone, and especially not to me. I shrug and continue touching him, working his erection until he's on the edge and bringing him back down, again and again, alternating it with small tortures until he looks giddy with the rollercoaster ride I'm forcing on him, his miserable, aroused voice a low song of frustration.  
    
“C'mon, Sakito,” I murmur, once he's been close so many times that he's starting to cry again. “Just one little word and we can end this fucking nightmare.” He looks up at me with that beautiful, innocent expression he puts on, he must be really desperate if he thinks that'll work on me now. Goddammit, I will keep him on this knife-edge all fucking night if that's what it takes to get my psychological well-being back!  
    
“ _Ruka_ , I...” He _is_ making the effort, I can see that. But he still can't say the word, shaking his head hopelessly, and I'm nearly as frustrated as he must be right now. Maybe he needs a bit of a push, and at this point I'm willing to go further than ever before to break that stubborn streak once and for all.  
    
With one hand still on his cock I ghost my free fingers up his quivering throat and along his fine jawline to reach his left ear. I trace its pretty curves, second-guessing myself already, but desperate times and all that. A quick pinch to his earlobe gets him focused on this hand instead of the one getting him off. Feeling rather unsteady myself I take hold of the upper of his two piercings, a small gothic Vivienne cross attached to a silver ring. Maybe there's some change in the tension of my body, because Sakito's gaze shoots up to meet mine, eyes wide and petrified attention suddenly fixed on my face. It was him who gave me the idea, after all.  
    
“ _Ruka_...” he repeats in an awed whisper, swallowing heavily as I give the earring a tug. Do I look as fucking scared as I feel? “...You wouldn't dare.”  
    
“ _I would_ ,” I assure him, and his eyelashes flicker, white teeth digging into his bottom lip. I feel his hard-on twitch in my grip, and know I was right. The twisted little bastard. Guess that makes two of us.  
    
“Then do it!” he blurts out, insinuating his hips up into my hand. I take a firmer hold on the superfluous earring and twist, see his exquisite face nearing the edge of ecstasy beneath me.  
    
“You have to say it.” I speed up my left hand, and he's so close now, beginning to hyperventilate. “Say it!”  
    
“... _Can't_ ,” moans Sakito. I pull on the cross, I can sense the resistance from his flesh and it sickens me to imagine how much this would hurt him. I hold him there, balanced on the verge of orgasm, and it's anyone's guess who'll fall first.  
    
“Let me give you what you want,” I order him desperately, increasing the pressure on his ear until he's weeping with it. “That's all I _ever_ wanted!” He looks up at me, nothing left of the composed, calculating devil I know so well: like this he's nothing but a beautiful, cornered animal. Then,  
    
“... _Please!!_ ”  
    
He spits out the word like it's poison and it takes everything he has, and as soon as I hear it something electric and marvellous crackles through me; before I have time to think I steel myself and rip the piercing from his ear, a fine spray of blood on my fingers as the silver tears through his skin.  
    
Sakito throws back his head and screams, the most agonized, delighted sound I ever heard, and the next second he's coming, his entire body shaking with the force of it. That is _incredible_ , not to mention loud enough to bring the entire Tokyo police force down on us. And he said it. He _said_ it! A belated wave of adrenaline bursts over me and I find myself grinning down wolfishly at him, I probably look totally insane but I have finally fucking _won_.  
    
“ _Saki_ ,” I say, and I want to laugh or throw up, I'm not sure which. Sakito lifts his head blindly, still shuddering with pleasure, and I kiss him fiercely to avoid the possibility of either. When I can finally draw myself away I see blood running in a thin trail down the side of his elegant neck; I guiltily drop the earring I'm still holding between my fingers and wipe my hand convulsively on my shirt. I immediately dirty it again, cradling his clenched jaw, touching my thumb gingerly to his poor ear; a little aftershock of orgasm trembles through him and he leans his cheek into my hand, the gesture of a pet that he had a hundred times from me during our car-crash of an affair but which I never thought to get from _him_.  
    
“Are you all right?” I ask in a hushed voice, as if having an ear ripped about would somehow make his hearing more sensitive. Sakito takes a tearful breath, and to my amazement manages to form a coherent sentence.  
    
“...Don't get blood on my car seats.”  
    
“You're a freak,” I inform him, though I'm still too thrilled with him for giving in to make my tone particularly rancorous. “Anyway, they're leather.” But I scoot my way forward to the dashboard and rummage around in the glove compartment until I find some tissues, returning to press one to his ear and clean up the rest of him as best I can with another.  
    
“You can...untie me any time now, Ruka,” he suggests, muscles gradually relaxing under my ministrations. He cracks his eyes open and catches my doubtful look. “I couldn't do anything to you if I wanted to,” he says. He looks so small like this, now he's no longer bristling at me like an angry cat, and is so bitten and knocked about I suppose I can take his word for it. I hope. I unwind my belt from the head-rest, revealing wide strips of red on his wrists where he's worried himself raw trying to get at me.  
    
Sakito muffles a whimper, white with pain as his high subsides and his combined injuries begin to catch up with him. He lowers his arms tentatively, wincing, and pokes cautiously at his ear.  
    
“ _Shit_ ,” he says with a hiss, and quickly leaves off touching it.  
    
“You asked for it.” I do feel guilty, no doubt of it, but have no real urge to apologise. Very odd, but I like it. I think.  
    
“Yes,” acknowledges Sakito quietly, and disentangles his slender legs from mine, wriggling tiredly into a more comfortable position once I've released him from his seat-belt. “I did. And you obeyed me.” Hum. A risky word, that, and perhaps he's not aware of it but perhaps he is, because he promptly shuts up and looks pensively aside. I sit watching him, trying to regain my equilibrium and figure out what, if anything, I've gained from finally crossing the line between rough sex and what is basically assault. But it's too much for me to deal with by myself.  
    
“...So what now?” I ask heavily. Sakito stares up at the Corvette's roof for a while, tissue clamped to his ear, then turns to look at me, exquisite face bruised and scratched to such an extent that for once he's emerged in a worse state than me and is going to be hard put to hide it from Hitsu and co.  
    
“I don't know,” he confesses in a whisper, looking blank. Well, that's unnerving coming from him. “This has never happened before. I can't play the same game we used to; you know all the moves.” I snort bitterly. “There's really no-one else like you, Ruka.” From his tone, I take it that this is not something to be thrilled about.  
    
“Because?”  
    
“...Because you can surprise me, I suppose. And just when I think you're so predictable.” He purses his lips for a moment, still tender from the bites and blows and kisses, and gives me a censorious look. “I can't say that I care for it.”  
    
“Sakito,” I say severely, because I refuse to get used to being insulted again, not now I've finally levelled the playing field. “Lay off the games for one minute. Please. And use your pretty head to fucking think for once. Now: what do you _want_?”  
    
Sakito gives me one long, worried glare, then, to my surprise, presses the heels of his hands against his eyes with a groan.  
    
“I want...” He stops again, and I sigh. “I want...” He shakes his head. “I just want you to lie down with me.” I make a sceptical noise. “Ruka,” he murmurs, and to my amazement the word has no inflection, no subtle insult or command underlying my name. He just sounds exhausted.  
    
I eye him warily for a while, then slowly recline along the edge of the seat. Sakito edges himself over to make room, not looking particularly inviting but also not like he's scheming, which has to be a first. Dubiously I lower my head to the leather and, after a moment of mutual distrust in which we both lie there rigid, I hear him exhale, a long, shaky breath. Then his head is nestled beneath my chin, fine hair scented with petrol and sweat, and his body comes to rest against mine. Scary, scary.  
    
When he doesn't move or speak I reach over, careful as if I'm putting my hand in a trap, and scoop him up with one arm around his insignificant waist.  
    
“Ow,” says Sakito quietly, as I brush a row of weals that are rising in a tiger pattern down his side.  
    
“Sorry.” Shit, I just apologised. But he doesn't seem inclined to make anything of it.  
    
“...I don't know what I want,” he continues after a minute, again with that inflectionless tone. “I didn't plan this.”  
    
“I know you didn't,” I say stiffly. I'll give him that much credit, at least: it was my fault for setting hands on him so unwisely. But _he_ was the one who chose to escalate it. And can I really bring myself to leave it here, now I've had a taste of him again?  
    
“But it reminded me of before,” muses Sakito into my shoulder, echoing my thoughts. Is it possible the two of us are finally operating on the same creepy wavelength? “...Only better.” From my point of view, certainly. I fail to see what he's got out of it. He twists his head to give me a cautious glance, wincing as the movement disturbs his ear. “You liked it too.”  
    
“'Like' may be the wrong word.”  
    
“You liked getting your own back. After all this time.” He's got me there.  
    
“I liked making us _even_ ,” I correct him, running my fingers lightly back and forth across his shoulder-blade, enjoying the sensation of his bare skin while I can. “And now we are.” Please remember that, Ruka! Sakito leans up on his elbows.  
    
“Then why don't we do something sometime?” he suggests, tentatively, like I might snap at him, and it's so gratifying to hear that wary note, to feel I've finally inspired enough respect to make him think twice before he speaks.  
    
“...Like what?” I don't think my psychological defences could take another session like this one, and his body certainly can't. He shrugs beneath my hand.  
    
“Come out in the car.” Now _that's_ an honour: Sakito is a solitary traveller. His dark eyes flicker over my face, reading my response. “I'll let you drive,” he offers. And with that I slip my hand up to the back of his neck and kiss him, his surprised stillness quickly giving way to a quiet pressure of his lips. Admittedly, it's a tiny concession upon which to build any hopes of a future in which Sakito and I could be together without kicking the mental and sexual shit out of each other. But looking at him, so beautiful and battered and _reasonable_ for the first time in his life, I decide it has to be worth a shot.  
    
“...All right.”  
    
Besides, I always wanted to drive the Corvette.


End file.
